UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


WINTER  POEMS 


FAVORITE    AMERICAN     POETS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  CO. 

187  i 


146125 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870, 

BY    FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    &    CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


P.: 


In  "WINTER  POEMS"  the  Publishers  offer  a  Holiday 
book  having  special  appropriateness  to  the  season.  The 
first  poem,  "  THE  PAGEANT,"  was  written  expressly  for 
this  volume.  The  other  poems  combine  the  elements  of 
wide  popularity,  seasonableness,  and  fitness  for  illustra- 
tion. It  is  believed  that  the  variety  and  beauty  of  the 
designs,  and  the  excellence  of  the  engraving  and  printing, 
will  commend  the  volume  to  the  highest  favor  of  the 
public. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  PAGEANT 

THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE    .     .     . 

A  WINTER  PIECE 

THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL    .... 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS 

THE  SNOW-SHOWER      ..... 

WOODS  IN  WINTER 

THE  SNOW-STORM  ....... 


PA< 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .      .  13 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  2 1 

William  Cullen  Bryant     ,      .  25 

James  Russell  Lowell  .      .      .  33 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .      .  37 

William  Cnllen  Bryant     .      .  41 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfell(no  45 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson      .      .  48 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR    Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow    5 1 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

[The  Engravings  by  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY,  under  whose  supervision  the  book  is  prepared.] 

THE  PAGEANT.                                                       ARTIST.  PAGE 
"  A  sound  as  if  from  bells  of  silver 

Through  the  frost-pictured  panes  I  hear."    .     HARRY  FENN  ....     13 

"Virgin  snow-paths  glimmering  through 

A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue." "            "  ....     14 

"  How  yonder  Ethiopian  hemlock 

Crowned  with  his  glistening  circlet  stands."     "            "  .     .     .     .     16 

The  Waterfall "            "  ....     17 

"The  rabbit  lightly  leaping." "            "  .     .     .     .     18 

"  Cattle-tramp  in  crispy  snow." "            "  .     .     .     .     18 

"  Prophecy  of  summer  days." "            "  ....     20 


THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

"  Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber."    .         .     .     WINSLOW  HOMER     .     .     21 


List  of  Illustrations. 


"  Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes."  ....  WINSLOW  HOMER  .  .  22 

"  By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers."                             "  .  .  22 

"By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted."    ...                             "  .  .  23 

"  By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort."                             "  .  .  23 

"  On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing."             "               "  .  .  24 


A  WINTER  PIECE. 

"Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks." C.  C.  GRISWOLD    ...    25 

"  The  bleak  November  winds." "  "  ...    26 

"The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough."        "  "  .     .         27 

"  And  'neath  the  hemlock  .... 

The  partridge  found  a  shelter.    Through  the  snow 

The  rabbit  sprang  away." "  ...    28 

"The  slant  sun  of  February." "  "  ...    29 

"The  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  .glen." "  "  ...    31 

"The  little  wind-flower."  .    .  "  "  .     ?2 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 

The  Snow-Spirit \V.  J.  HENNESSY  ...  33 

"  I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window."      .     .  "            »           ...  34 

"With  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her."    .     .  "            •<           ...  36 


List  of  Illustrations. 


IX 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

"  The  school-house  by  the  road." S.  EYTINGE,  JR.  ...  37 

"For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy."  ....          "            "  .     .     .  39 

"The  grasses  on  Her  grave." "            "  ...  40 


THE  SNOW-SHOWER. 

"Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 

On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes."     .    .     W.  J.  HENNESSY  ...    41 

"  I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear."     .     .     .     .        "  ...    43 

The  Silent  Lake HOMER  D.  MARTIN  .    .    44 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

"  With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill."      .     , 

"  The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes." 

"The  crystal  icicle  is  hung."      .... 
"And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day." 

"And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud."     . 

"I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year."    .     .     . 


.    HARRY  FENN 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 
Arrives  the  snow." 


JERVIS  MCENTEE 


"The  north-wind's  masonry." 

"  The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow."   . 


List  of  Illustrations. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

"  Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard."  .     . 

"  The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year." 

"Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan."    .... 

"There  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day."      .     .     . 


ALFRED  FREDERICKS 


54 


55 


[The  Vignettes  and  Ornaments  in  the  introductory  pages  are  drawn  by  JOHN  J.  HARLEV.] 


THE     PAGEANT. 


A 


SOUND  as  if  from  bells  of  silver, 
Or  elfin  cymbals  smitten  clear, 
Through  the  frost-pictured  panes  I  hear. 


A  brightness  which  outshines  the  morning, 
A  splendor  brooking  no  delay, 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 


I  leave  the  trodden  village  highway 

For  virgin  snow-paths  glimmering  through 
A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue  ; 


The  Pageant. 


Where,  keen  against  the  walls  of  sapphire, 
The  gleaming  tree-bolls,  ice-embossed, 
Hold  up  their  chandeliers  of  frost. 


I  tread  in  Orient  halls  enchanted, 

I  dream  the  Saga's  dream  of  caves 
Gem-lit  beneath  the  North  Sea  waves ! 


The  Pageant.  15 

I  walk  the  land  of  Eldorado, 

I  touch  its  mimic  garden  bowers, 

Its  silver  leaves  and  diamond  flowers ! 


The  flora  of  the  mystic  mine-world 
Around  me  lifts  on  crystal  stems 
The  petals  of  its  clustered  gems  ! 


What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 

Is  this  wild  work  of  frost  and  light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite  ! 


This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City 

Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 

The  white  bride  coming  down  from  heaven  ! 


How  flash  the  ranked  and  mail-clad  alders, 

Through  what  sharp-glancing  spears  of  reeds 
The  brook  its  muffled  water  leads  ! 


Yon  maple,  like  the  bush  of  Horeb, 

Burns  unconsumed  :   a  white,  cold  fire 
Rays  out  from  every  grassy  spire. 


The  Pageant. 

Each  slender  rush  and  spike  of  mullein, 
Low  laurel  shrub  and  drooping  fern, 
Transfigured,  blaze  where'er  I  turn. 


How  yonder  Ethiopian  hemlock 

Crowned  with  his  glistening  circlet  stands  ! 
What  jewels  light  his  swarthy  hands  ! 

Here,  where  the  forest  opens  southward, 
Between  its  hospitable  pines, 
As  through  a  door,  the  warm  sun  shines. 


The  jewels  loosen  on  the  branches, 

And  lightly,  as  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Fall,  tinkling,  on  the  ice  below. 


The  Pageant. 


And  through  the  clashing  of  their  cymbals 
I  hear  the  old  familiar  fall 
Of  water  down  the  rocky  wall, 


V<x      \\V 
Where,  from  its  wintry  prison  breaking, 

In  dark  and  silence  hidden  long, 
The  brook  repeats  its  summer  song. 


One  instant  flashing  in  the  sunshine, 
Keen  as  a  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Then  lost  again  the  ice  beneath. 


i8 


The  Pageant. 


I  hear  the  rabbit  lightly  leaping, 

The  foolish  screaming  of  the  jay,   ''* 
The  chopper's  axe-stroke  far  away  ; 


The  clamor  of  some  neighboring  barn-yard 
The  lazy  cock's  belated  crow, 
Or  cattle-tramp  in  crispy  snow. 


The  Pageant.  19 

And,  as  in  some  enchanted  forest 

The  lost  knight  hears  his  comrades  sing, 
And,  near  at  hand,  their  bridles  ring, 


So  welcome  I  these  sounds  and  voices, 
These  airs  from  far-off  summer  blown, 
This  life  that  leaves  me  not  alone. 


For  the  white  glory  overawes  me ; 
The  crystal  terror  of  the  seer 
Of  Chebar's  vision  blinds  me  here. 


Rebuke  me  not,  O  sapphire  heaven ! 

Thou  stainless  earth,  lay  not  on  me 
This  keen  reproach  of  purity ! 


Let  the  strange  frost-work  sink  and  crumble, 
And  let  the  loosened  tree-boughs  swing, 
Till  all  their  bells  of  silver  ring. 


Shine  warmly  down,  thou  sun  of  noontime, 
On  this  chill  pageant,  melt  and  move 
The  winter's  frozen  heart  with  love. 


2o  The  Pageant. 

And,  soft  and  low,  thou  wind  south-blowing, 
Breathe  through  a  veil  of  tenderest  haze 
Thy  prophecy  of  summer  days. 


Come  with  thy  green  relief  of  promise, 
And  to  this  dead,  cold  splendor  bring 
The  living  jewels  of  the  spring ! 


.EAFLESS  are  the  trees;  their  purple 

branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 


From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 


At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  firelight ; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 


22 


The  Golden  Mile-stone. 


By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 


By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 


The  Golden  Mile-stone. 


23 


By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching, 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 


24  The  Golden  Mile- stone. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-stone  ; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 


In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it  ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not 


Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 


We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our -rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations! 


A    WINTER    PIECE. 

r  I  "'HE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 

Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit  —  when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  flutterings  —  I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 
That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the  chant 
Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 


26  A    Winter  Piece. 

Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  World 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 


The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still ;  they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks  ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 


A    Winter  Piece. 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 
The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams 
And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 
By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 
Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 
Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 
Among  them,  when  the  clouds  from  their  still  skirts 
Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 
And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 
Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 
Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 
Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 
Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 
Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 


28 


A    Winter  Piece. 


And    'neath    the    hemlock,    whose 

thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and 

kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered 

leaves, 
The     partridge     found     a     shelter. 

Through  the  snow 
The    rabbit     sprang     away.      The 

lighter  track 
Of    fox,   and   the   raccoon's   broad 

path,  were  there, 
Crossing    each    other.      From    his 

hollow  tree 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering 

the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that. asked   the   winter 

cold  and  sway 

Of   winter    blast    to 
shake  them  from 
their  hold. 


A.    Winter  Piece.  29 

But  winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes,  —  he  boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows  ; 
Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice, 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look  !   the  massy  trunks 


Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal  ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 


30  A    Winter  Piece. 

The  glassy  floor.     Oh  !   you  might  deem  the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth,  —  where  the  gems  grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz,  —  and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun;  — 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches ;  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye ; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault  ; 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 

Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 

And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 

And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light  ; 

Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 

With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 


And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 


A    Winter  Piece. 


The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 

In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines,  — 

'T  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 

Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 

Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 

The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 

That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops 


A    Winter  Piece. 

Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe. 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at, 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 


THE    FIRST    SNOW-FALL. 

r  I  ^HE   snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 
With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 


Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow, 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 


34 


The  First  Snow-Fall. 


I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 


The  First  Snow-Fall.  35 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 

Where  a  little  headstone  stood  ; 
How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 

As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 


Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ? " 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-Father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 


Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 


I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 


And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 
"  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall  !  " 


36  The  First  Snow-Fall. 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her 
And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 

That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 
Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 


OTILL   sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning  ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 
And  blackberry-vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official  ; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial  ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 


146125 


38  In  School-Days. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 


For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 


Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow  ; 

To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ;  — 
As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 


He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 


"  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word  : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 


In  School-Days. 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 
Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 

Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 
And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 


39 


4O  In  School-Days. 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing, 

Dear  girl  !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 


He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


THE    SNOW-SHOWER. 


OTAND   here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 

On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 
The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 

And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies  ; 
And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 
In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow  ; 

Flake  after  flake 
They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


A  2  The  Snow-Shower. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil  ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below  ; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 
That  whiten  by  night  the  milky-way ; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall  ; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all  — 

Flake  after  flake  — 

All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way  ; 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life  ; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


The  Snow-Shower. 


43 


Lo  !   while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height, 

The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

What  speed  they  make,  with  their  grave  so  nigh  ; 
Flake  after  flake, 

To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  ! 


44 


The  Snow-Shower. 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear  ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought  : 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time,  and  now  are  not  ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake,— 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide  ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies  ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water  no  more  is  seen  ; 

Flake  after  flake, 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


WOODS    IN    WINTER. 

T  T  7  HEN   winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorne  blows  the  gale, 
With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 


O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 


46 


Woods  in   Winter. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 


Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 


Alas  !   how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 


Woods  in    Winter. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !   within  your  crowd; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 


47 


Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !    my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


THE    SNOW-STORM. 


A   NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow>  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :   the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 


The  Snow-Storm. 


49 


Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 


For  number  or  proportion. 

Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs 

Parian  wreaths  ;  -^ a** 

A  swan-like  form   invests  the  hidden 

thorn  ; 


The  Snow-Storm. 

Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs  ;   and,  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 


"\7"ES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
Caw  !   caw  !    the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 


Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll  ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing,  "Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  pray  ! " 


5  2  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year. 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain  ! 


Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year.  53 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild-flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  a  king  ! 


Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !    his  last  !     O,  the  old  man  gray, 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 


To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 
To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 
"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  !  " 


And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  : 
Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies ; 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 
Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 


54 


Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year. 


Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 


Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year. 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 
Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 
The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind  ! 


55 


Howl !   howl  !   and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  Soul  !    could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away ! 


For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  : 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleyson  ! 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


OCT  2  o  193V 


JAN 


2     1934 


DEC  2  9 


LOAN 


• 


NOV10 


.M. 


P.M. 


.ovo 


IV 


JUH  20 

'JUN  1  8 

• 


Form  L-9-35m-8,'28 


